


But There's Sadness in the Air

by thebatwiggler



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Protectiveness, and all the fluff happens, and the others really don't appreciate it, basically i get to wump on d'Artagnan for about 20k, because that is Very Important, but also recovery, graphic depictions of bullying, kind of, note: this was started before like ep 7 or so, so canon is a bit shot sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebatwiggler/pseuds/thebatwiggler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan thought he'd escaped the brutality of Cartier- the taunts, the bruises, the <i>humiliation</i>. But it seems hiding from his past is impossible, even in such big a place as Paris. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>(Or, more accurately, the one where d'Artagnan flees from his cruel bully in Paris and finds that the past can catch up to him regardless. Loyal friends and a budding romance make things complicated, and d'Artagnan falls into old habits much too easily.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	But There's Sadness in the Air

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo! Welcome to my completed first chapter of my [kink meme fill](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=80390#cmt80390)! There should be three chapters in all (and I can already feel my TW friends laughing at me in the distance over that, but it will. I swear. This fic _will_ only be three chapters). Anyway, this'll be a bit graphic, so please be aware of that if you're triggered by bullying/serious violence. Nothing life threatening, and nothing sexual, but it is intense. 
> 
> Huge thanks to my betas and friends, all of who have held my hand and supported me as I went a little crazy with this fic haha. [Sara](http://xomusicfreakox.tumblr.com/), who helped me a ton with my ramblings, [Kim](http://tommisonspubictopiary.tumblr.com/), who is amazing and wonderful (and writes the best Musketeers fic, omg, go read it _now_ , and my darling [Emiliana](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com), who listened to me and helped me out despite never even watching a single episode. I love you all <3
> 
> And finally! For small fics, inane ramblings, or just fandom fun- you can always find me at [my tumblr](http://thebatwiggler.tumblr.com)!

“You are taking care of yourself?” his mother asks. She’s wringing her hands, her pale brown eyes filled with concern over him; she’s thinner, her wrists so frail that d’Artagnan fears them snapping with her sharp movements. A bit of lost weight is not as bad as things could be, he supposes; his father’s only been dead for six months, and when he’d last seen her, she’d looked downright ill. It made him feel absolutely retched, leaving her to escape to Paris; he still carries the guilt with him sometimes, a familiar presence, but seeing her slow improvement eases it just a bit.   
  
Living with his sister and her husband has helped, d’Artagnan sees. As one of his nephews runs through the kitchen, his mother’s face softening for a small moment, d’Artagnan admits that the miracle of children will forever cure any ails. Even the sickness of the heartbroken, a woman widowed and childless in one fell swoop.   
  
“I’m fine, mére. The musketeers have been amazing, and the men I work with are truly admirable.” D’Artagnan smiles briefly at his mother. “I think I’ll only need another year before passing my training and becoming a full-fledged member,” he admits, the pride in his voice noticeable even to him.   
  
His mother eyes him for a moment, her gaze as piercing as that of Athos; a mighty feat, considering the man’s ability to look at someone and seemingly know everything. It’s eerie, honestly, and d’Artagnan is not ashamed in looking away.   
  
“They are kind to you?” she asks, something  _old_  and sad in her voice that makes d’Artagnan’s gut clench uncomfortable. Oh, his  _dear_  maman.   
  
He steps forward, taking in the scent of her soap, and wrapping his arms tightly around her. “They are  _different_ ,” he insists, his chin resting gently atop her head, her short stature always a topic of teasing in the household. “They treat me like a friend. They care for me.”  
  
“I could tell.” His mother tightens her hold on him briefly. “You look happy, and it is mesmerizing, my sweet. I haven’t seen you smile like this in years,” she tells him, and his heart breaks just a bit. “It makes it easier to let you go,” she whispers lowly, as if admitting to a dark secret.   
  
D’Artagnan only hugs her tighter, tucking his nose in the grey tresses of her hair, sighing deeply. 

-

The thing is, d’Artagnan is not lying when he tells his mother that the musketeers are different.

He’s truly never met people like them; not only are they smart and brave and simply amazing, but they’re also unendingly _kind_.

d’Artagnan has only spent a few months with them, but he values them like the treasures they are; honorable men who treat him with thoughtfulness and respect when others have laughed in his face. It's a jarring difference, and he finds himself utterly bemused by it at times. Aramis, always quick to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder, and Porthos, the first to laugh at his jokes and include him in stories. And Athos, who is simply _there_ , watching over him and assuring him and taking _care_ of him.

It’s overwhelming, to have so much after going so long with so little, but he revels in it just the same.

He might never know what he did to deserve such generous and loyal comrades, but he is thankful for it every day. Their friendship is a gift, a precious one, he knows. So d’Artagnan works hard and keeps his head down so as not to bother them too much, and clings, just a bit, to the idea that they might keep him around for just a while longer.

-  
  
“My  _feet_ ,” Armis complains, slumping on the bench in the yard with gracelessness. “Today has been absolutely hellish.”   
  
“Aye,” Porthos agrees, seating himself with far more grace. “Drills would be better than this.”  
  
D’Artagnan stays quiet, but he steadfastly agrees in his head. Standing around for hours on end for an entire week is both dull and tiring, especially in this heat; and, judging by Athos’ positively mutinous expression, complete  _torture_.   
  
“Our efforts would do more good elsewhere,” Athos mutters under his breath, his expression dark as he tugs his sweaty cape over his shoulders. Aramis and Porthos grunt their agreement, but d’Artagnan is more preoccupied with keeping his face from flushing than responding.   
  
D’Artagnan has become somewhat used to his handsome comrades, but it is Athos that still makes his heart stutter. The man is kind and brave and noble, and to make matters worse, he is utterly  _gorgeous_.  
  
It makes moments like these, Athos’ hair slightly damp with sweat, head tilted up to the sky in exasperation, his adam’s apple bobbing enticingly, excruciatingly awkward for d’Artagnan. He can only swallow and avert his gaze.  
  
A moment passes in silence before Aramis finally groans aloud and drags himself to his feet once more. “Alright. I believe it is time for a drink, yes?” He doesn’t wait for a reply before he starts to head off, dragging his feet in the manner of the truly fatigued.   
  
The others begin to get up around him, and d’Artagnan is contemplating cooking or buying a quick meal for dinner tonight; he’d rather not spend money, but he is also much too tired to cook. Perhaps Constance would be willing to spare some food his way?  
  
“Ow!” he yelps, the sharp slap to his head unexpected and rough. Porthos looks down at him with a queer look; d’Artagnan can’t quite figure it out, but he knows he didn’t deserve the smack. “What was that for?” he asks indignantly.   
  
“Didn’t you hear Aramis? We’re going for a drink.” At d'Artagnan’s blank look, Porthos clarifies, “That includes you, you idiot.”  
  
D’Artagnan smiles, just a tad more brightly than he should considering that Porthos hasn’t stopped giving him a look. He is still unused to the easy affection his friends give him, and it always manages to bring a smile to his face when he finds them thinking of him in their plans. “Well?” he asks, after getting up, gathering his things, and noticing Porthos still standing still. “Lead the way!”

He notices Porthos and Aramis sharing a few looks here and there on the way to the tavern, their pointed glances and murmured words hardly subtle. d’Artagnan mostly shrugs them off; they must have their own affairs to attend to that do not include him, and he musn’t feel left out because of it.

(And if he does get an inkling of melancholy, it is mostly swept away by the way Athos stays close during the walk, elbow brushing his side with every other step. It’s childish and insignificant, but d’Artagnan gets a giddy rush from it every time, and Athos doesn’t seem inclined to step away, so. He figures he’s allowed a few moments of fantasy-filled bliss, and no one has to know besides.)

Reaching the tavern reveals a new problem, though.

“Damn,” he mutters, looking for his money pouch. He hadn’t thought to check until now, but apparently he’d left it behind in his rooms. d’Artagnan sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, turning to Athos just as they enter. “I seem to have forgotten my money.”

Porthos laughs and nudges d’Artagnan further in, nearly pushing him into a chair. “If that’s your way of getting a free meal, I have to say it’s unoriginal.”

d’Artagnan blushes and stammers a bit, fervently hoping his friends don’t think him capable of taking advantage of them. “No, of course not! I was just about to excuse myself-” he starts, getting up quickly.

He doesn’t get far before Aramis grips his shoulders tight and forces him back down. “He was only joking, lad.” Aramis bends over, chuckling in his ear. “Besides, I’m sure Athos will be happy to pay for all of us, the _generous_ leader that he is.”

Athos doesn’t bother replying, instead turning to the young lady approaching them. “Three bottles of your finest,” he orders without preamble, “and whatever meat is freshest and cooked. Do you have any bread?”

Despite being a bit startled at Athos’ bluntness, the girl quickly answers, “Yes, straight from the oven less than an hour ago. And we’ve some duck and goose in the back, caught and skinned this morning.”

Athos nods and points to d’Artagnan. “We’ll both have a serving of each, with bread if you please. And,” he adds, finally turning towards Porthos and Athos, a small grin on his lips, “they’ll have nothing. Because that’s all I’m buying them. _Nothing_.”

As Aramis fakes a wounded heart, charming the girl with a few bats of his eyelashes, d’Artagnan twists in his chair anxiously. “I promise to pay you back tomorrow,” he tells Athos.

His friend merely waves him off, his usual grimness falling away to reveal a tired contentment. “It’s nothing. I’ve bought enough meals for those idiots,” he nods towards Porthos and Aramis, who’ve started an arm wrestling match, the young lady cheering them on, “that it just wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t do the same for you.”

The words warm his heart, and d’Artagnan is unable to resist the smile that graces his face. He must look a bit deranged, to be so happy over food, because both Aramis and Porthos turn away from their game to give him amused looks.

“My, my,” Aramis coos, “you’re easy to please, aren’t you?” Porthos laughs amiably, slapping the back of d’Artagnan’s chair.

Without an ounce of shame, he replies, “Yes.”

That only serves to make them laugh harder, but d’Artagnan hardly cares; he happily beams at his friends, and watches as Aramis throws a cloth napkin across the table, leering at Athos suggestively when the man looks up.

“You’re all ridiculous,” Athos mumbles, and d’Artagnan idly notices that the tips of his ears are a faint pink.

****-

“The king and Queen are planning to spend some time in Versailles, now that construction has finally finished,” Treville tells them, his cool gaze determined and voice firm. D’Artagnan is happy that he is not important enough to stand in front with the rest of the musketeers in the courtyard if only because he is thus further away from such an intimidating presence. “We will need to plan the route and formation for the journey, as well as security strategies to ensure the safety of the royal family. I’ll state the roster for the trip later today, and any suggestions will be placed under advisement. Dismissed,” Treville finishes, nodding at them before heading back to his office.   
  
Next to him, another apprentice shivers slightly; it  _is_  cold, the early hour not providing even a sliver of sunlight. D’Artagnan steels himself, though, determined not to give his discomfort away as he heads over to his friends.   
  
Athos and the others have already taken control of the table directly next to the fire pit, their seniority clear from the way the others give them envious looks. D’Artagnan tries to smother the small bit of smugness he feels at being included in their group, instead sidling up to the fire quietly in search of warmth.   
  
“With the amount of problems we’ve had lately, I say a decoy carriage would be prudent.” Porthos blows into his hands briefly, his bandana lowered to cover more of his face. “Really,” he grumbles, "I'll never understand royals. Going on vacation with death threats hanging in the air, like they're invincible."

Aramis shrugs, curling an arm around d’Artagnan and pulling him close. “What do you think, lad?”   
  
D’Artagnan blinks, caught off guard. He’s become very used to taking a step back when it came to decision making, understanding that his own youth and ignorance limited his ability to contribute anything of value. Besides, he’d hate to sour himself to the others by constantly talking when not spoken to.  
  
D’Artagnan feels a nudge and turns to see Porthos looking at him with a soft grin. “Well? Any ideas, d’Artagnan?”  
  
Nervousness creeps in and he bites his lip absently, ducking away from Aramis’ encouraging gaze, as well as his arm. “I don’t-” d’Artagnan starts, only to be cut off by Athos.   
  
“Come on,” the older man encourages, his lips quirked in an uncommon smile. “Share with us- you’ve a head for strategy, I know it.”   
  
The blush that creeps up his neck is embarrassing, but d’Artagnan is too pleased to care. He can admit to himself that his fascination with Athos has only gotten worse in the last few weeks, and any words from the man are treasured and kept close. “Well, Porthos’ idea of a decoy carriage has merit. Perhaps we could spread an itinerary around, place most musketeers as guards for the fake, and move the King and Queen in a smaller carriage at a different time of day? Place the strongest and most trustworthy in charge of the King and Queen while the attention is focused on the decoy?” D’Artagnan shrugs a bit. “Versailles is only a short distance from the Palace, there’s no reason the musketeers must even know they don’t have Our Majesty in their protection.”  
  
Porthos kicks him in the shin softly, chuckling. “Taking my idea, are you?”  
  
“Making it  _better_ ,” d’Artagnan teases. Even Aramis laughs at that, swinging his arm back around him and ruffling his hair; d’Artagnan makes a token protest, but his smile is still so wide is almost hurts. He's gotten more used to this- the joking and laughing and touching. He's gotten much better at it, too, since that time in the tavern. He feels a tinge of pride at himself, and ducks low to hide his pleased expression.   
  
“Not just a pretty face, then,” Athos mutters. It’s said so low, he couldn’t possibly have wanted the others to hear him, yet- _Yet_ , both Porthos and Aramis look a bit gobsmacked.   
  
D’Artagnan can’t quite help himself, either.   
  
“You think me pretty?” he blurts, almost wincing at the bare and aching hopefulness in his voice. In his periphery, he can see both Aramis and Porthos whip their heads back to him.   
  
Athos looks at him, his expression considering, and d’Artagnan can only swallow in the face of such tension. Finally, the other man grins, a small and happy expression, before giving a small nod and heading for the stairs that lead to Treville’s office.   
  
“Well I’ll be damned,” Aramis murmurs in d’Artagnan’s ear, but he can’t hear anything aside from the happy rush that’s taken over him.   
  
“Oh, come off it.” Porthos pushes him softly, tilting his head over to the other apprentices. “Go learn something in training.”   
  
D’Artagnan nods firmly and heads off, but even hours later, his shirt soaked through with sweat and arms throbbing with pain, he can’t quite contain his beaming expression.   
  
Athos finds him  _pretty_.   
  
-  
  
Later that night, as he’s helping Constance fix the table for dinner, a loud knock interrupts the quiet atmosphere. “I’ll answer,” he tells her, already heading for the door.   
  
Aramis greets him with a frown.   
  
“Why aren’t you getting ready?” Aramis asks as he shoulders his way inside without a care, greeting Constance as he makes his way to d’Artagnan’s room.   
  
“For what?”  
  
Aramis gives him a look, a mixture of disappointment and something else. D’Artagnan straightens up and tries not to shuffle his feet in nervousness.   
“For the trip? To Versailles?” At d’Artagnan’s continued blank look, Aramis clarifies, “Our group leaves in a few hours for the Palace, where we’re to stay until the decoy leaves.”  
  
“But why would  _I_  go?” D’Artagnan asks, truly confused. “I wasn’t on the roster, I know that.” He’d stayed until afternoon with the rest of the soldiers to hear Treville’s decision on those who’d join the trip, and he  _knows_  his name wasn’t called. He vividly remembers the stab of disappointment he'd felt at having to be away from his friends- from  _Athos_ \- for an entire week.   
  
Aramis sighs. “You didn’t think we’d let Treville use your idea without pushing for you to join us, did you?”  
  
D’Artagnan smiles, pleasantly surprised by the news. This only seems to make Aramis’ mood darken, though, so he quickly stifles his happiness and grabs a bag to start packing.   
  
Aramis breathes deeply for a second, and leans forward to ruffle his hair shortly. “I don’t know why you act like that,” he mumbles as he watches d’Artagnan gather his things.   
  
“Act like what?” d’Artagnan asks, more focused on how many shirts he should bring.   
  
“Like we’ll forget about you at the first opportunity.”  
  
That snaps his attention back to Aramis, who only stares back with an unreadable look in his eyes. A nervous chuckle escapes him, and he turns back around to look for his clean pair of boots, his shoulders rigid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, uneasiness creeping into his gut. And he'd thought he was getting _better_ at this, d'Artagnan thinks crossly.   
  
The next few moments are tense-filled, before Aramis finally breaks it with a deep sigh. “You know, it was Athos who fought Treville especially hard about bringing you along tonight.”  
  
“Really?” His posture is stiff and he can’t quite meet Aramis’ eyes, but d’Artagnan still finds himself smiling. He thinks that no matter what happens, he'll always smile at Athos' name. It's a tad embarrassing to think about.   
  
Aramis chuckles lowly. “Of course; I doubt there’s much that could separate him from your pretty face, honestly.”   
  
D’Artagnan flushes horribly and throws a sock Aramis’ way. “He was simply teasing.”  
  
“That’s the interesting thing about it, though,” Aramis tells him, a lone eyebrow raised in condescension. “Athos has never been one to tease or smile, yet he does both more often. Now that  _you_  are here, d’Artagnan.”   
  
Heat blooms in his face and his skin tingles with all that is unsaid; d’Artagnan had scarcely thought to hope that someone like Athos could spare him a second thought. He, merely a commoner and a merchant’s son, no one important, and Athos, a count and the bravest man he’s ever met. It's  _unthinkable_.   
  
It is almost too much- this  _happiness_ \- his heart full and gut nervous with an anxious buzz.   
  
“You know, the sodomy laws were repealed  _decades_  ago,” Aramis adds, his voice teasing.   
  
This time, his face bright red, d’Artagnan throws a shoe at him.   
  
-

Aramis appreciates complexity in people. He enjoys it very much when people turn out to be different from expectations, be it a woman with a fondness for swords or a thief with a set of moral codes. If it’s interesting, Aramis usually finds himself both amused and entertained.   
  
D’Artagnan, on the other hand, only seems to frustrate him. The lad is boisterous and excitable and sarcastic one moment, and then shy and uncertain the next. It is, if Aramis were honest with himself,  _worrying_.   
  
What bothers Aramis is not the duplicity- he has met enough people to know that personalities are not always constant- but d’Artagnan  _withdraws_. Even small touches can lead to flinching, and sharp tones often cause d’Artagnan to shrink into himself and not utter a word the rest of the day.   
  
It is not healthy, and it breaks Aramis’ heart to see such a good friend hide himself so.   
  
So as they make their way to Versailles, their group of four the decided upon guards for both the Queen and King, Aramis makes a conscious effort to push d’Artagnan to relax.   
  
“Excited to see the outside of Paris, d’Artagnan?”   
  
D’Artagnan startles, clearly having not been paying attention. Aramis cranes his neck to the back, keeping Athos and Porthos in his sight (and noticing how both seemed blatantly curious in d’Artagnan’s answer).   
  
Even with the small carriage between them, the royal valet clearly disinterested in the conversation and more preoccupied with the reigns, d’Artagnan’s expression is still noticeably torn. “That obvious that I’m a country bumpkin, huh?” d’Artagnan laughs self-deprecatingly. “I still get lost in Paris,” he admits, smiling briefly at Aramis’ chuckle.   
  
“Paris is an education unto itself, that is definite,” Aramis jokes, pleased when d’Artagnan relaxes enough to nod and laugh.   
  
“Do you miss it?” Porthos asks, cutting into the conversation abruptly. “Gascony- do you miss it?”   
  
“I miss my mother and sister,” d’Artagnan answers, his expression once more closed off. Aramis mentally noted that talk of Gascony, apparently, does not bode well.   
  
“How old is your sister?” Athos inches closer, keeping enough of the formation as possible while still getting as near as possible to d’Artagnan’s space. It hasn't escaped Aramis' notice that Athos seems to be doing that a lot lately; getting near the Gascon seems to be Athos' goal most days, and considering the ease with which Athos now smiles, Aramis considers it a blessing. Porthos throws him a small smirk, and Aramis knows he's not the only one enjoying the blossoming romance in front of them.  
  
The Gascon boy blinks, his posture easing and a soft smile gracing his lips. “She’s nearing her thirtieth birthday; she has three children, two boys and one girl, with her husband. They’re all little hellions, the lot of them.”   
  
The soft look gracing d’Artagnan’s face is noticed by everyone, and the conversation takes off.   
  
“How old?” Porthos shakes his head ruefully. “The kids in The Court of Miracles were the cheekiest brats to ever exist, I swear it, and they’re worse once they can walk. I doubt your nephews and niece are half as bad.”  
  
D’Artagnan snorts. “The boys are seven and nine, and the girl is four. And the last time I was home, the boys stole my dagger and cut off all of their little sister’s hair.”  
  
Aramis whistled. “She must’ve cried a storm.”  
  
“Hardly,” d’Artagnan grinned at him. “She went to our neighbor and stole three pies, making sure to leave her brother’s blue coat on the front porch. Gustave and Anton got such a whipping from their father, even  _I_  had to wince.”  
  
“Reminds me of Constance,” mutters Porthos.  
  
“Is that why you were so taken with her when you got to Paris?” Aramis asks, amused despite himself.   
  
“She’s a married woman,” d’Artagnan replies automatically, and then grins after a moment. “My sister is worse,” d’Artagnan says, shrugging.   
  
“She seems a fierce woman. Are you two close?”   
  
“Very.” d’Artagnan’s expression softens further, if possible. “She was determined to protect me from everything growing up.”  
  
Porthos can’t help but laugh. “And what terrible dangers did you need protection from in  _Gascony_?”  
  
D’Artagnan’s answering laugh is brittle and forced, enough so that even the valet turns to them curiously. “I think,” d’Artagnan starts, swallowing nervously and avoiding their eyes, “I shall go on ahead a bit, scope the area out.”  
  
He leaves before getting the affirmative, his horse's hooves hitting the floor loudly with the speed of his exit, and Aramis is so confused he can only turn back and glare at Porthos.   
  
“What?” Prothos glares back at him. “I didn’t do anything!”  
  
“He already seemed uncomfortable talking about Gascony when you asked if he missed it; you should have been more careful with your words,” Aramis scolds gently. Porthos only grunts, his manner brusque as usual.   
  
“Has he mentioned Gascony to you before?” Athos inquires after a few moments in silence.   
  
Aramis shares a look with Porthos before shaking his head. “Nothing aside from small details of his family, like now.”   
  
“I see,” Athos murmurs, and the rest of the journey is spent in silence.   
  
-  
  
Versailles is a hunting lodge, not as opulent as the palace but more than fine enough for the royal family. D’Artagnan is still struck by it all, despite his work for His Majesty for the last few months.   
  
“You’ll never  _truly_  get used to it,” Porthos tells him when d’Artagnan admits his feelings to him later that day. “We work for the richest people in France- I doubt even they’re completely used to this lifestyle.”   
  
They play cards later that night, all huddled together in Athos’ room (the largest and nicest of all the rooms the musketeers were given), drinking out of the small flasks they brought with them and eating bits of fruit pilfered from the kitchens.   
  
D’Artangan doesn’t notice at first; he’s smart, he knows, but he can also be easily distracted, and considering that he’s expected to be around Athos for long periods of time… he is more than  _sufficiently_  distracted most moments.   
  
But when Porthos  _apologizes_  for eating the last pear- after Aramis  _berates_  him by saying that they’re d’Artagnan’s favorite- even he can’t deny that his friends are acting oddly.   
  
He’s more keen to observe after that, and what he finds makes his heart ache with happiness. The thing is, d’Artagnan doesn’t mean to be difficult; when the others mention Gascony, his first reaction is to flee, and because of it, he’s actually become worried that he’ll soon lose his new friends. But they don’t seem to care and, amazingly enough, they are being thoughtful and kind instead, putting in effort d’Artagnan knows they otherwise wouldn’t.   
  
Porthos is more careful with his words, sliding his near empty flask across the floor to him the instant d’Artagnan’s runs out of drink. Aramis practically  _coddles_  him, touching him softly on the arm every few moments, and taking great care to include him in every conversation, even when d’Artagnan is absolutely clueless about the subject.   
  
And  _Athos_. Athos, who prefers his quiet corners of solitude to interacting with the group, sits across from him and is thoroughly trouncing him at a game of cards. Every time Athos smiles, a small twist of lips and not much more, d’Artagnan is beside himself with the desire to positively  _preen_.   
  
It’s so amazing, this complete sense of happiness and contentedness that he feels; as the rest of the night passes with easy laughter and shared smiles, d’Artagnan doesn’t think on his life in Gascony once.   
  
-   
  
“How long will he be out here?” he whines, not wanting to be a bother but unable to hold it in any longer. Porthos, his companion for the day in watching the king, shrugs.   
  
“Don’t know,” he replies as he shifts his weight. They’ve been outside in the surrounding gardens for hours supposedly watching His Majesty hunt, and the man hasn’t managed to kill a single thing. “Dying for something to eat, though.”  
  
D’Artagnan considers the situation for a moment before turning back to his friend. “We’ve three other musketeers here; do you think it’d be alright if I stepped inside to get us a bite of food to eat?”   
  
Porthos grins. “As long as you’re careful to be subtle, I don’t see why not. You haven’t taken a bathroom break in a while, after all.”  
  
D’Artagnan winks back, and after a moment’s hesitation, gives Porthos a friendly nudge as he edges away. The pleased look he gets in return fills him with satisfaction, content with the knowledge that his attempts at reaching out are being met with open arms.   
  
He’s been trying to be more open since they arrived in Versailles; d’Artagnan has tried to relax and let himself trust more, the fact that Aramis could tell there was something off about his behavior unnerving and upsetting. He needs to give them a real chance (give  _Athos_ a real chance, his mind supplies), and he's promised himself he will. They haven’t excluded him based on his oddness, nor any other reason, and he’s beginning to think that they never will.   
  
It’s a heady thought, and as d’Artagnan makes his way to the kitchens, he does so with light feet.   
  
“Excuse me,” he calls out, looking around the entrance warily. He spots Marie, an older woman he was introduced to on his second day there, by the back table peeling potatoes. “I was wondering if you had any food to spare for a couple of hungry musketeers?” he asks charmingly.   
  
Marie huffs. “Check the pantry back there- they’re leftovers, so you can do what you like with them.” She eyes him for a moment. “I need to leave for a moment, so you better not stray from there- the rest of the food is for His Majesty and His Queen.”  
  
D’Artagnan’s proceeding bow is a bit elaborate, judging by Marie’s scoff. “I solemnly vow not to touch the rest of the food.”   
  
He’s left alone after that and so he goes searching, rummaging through leftovers with a single-minded focus. There’s a bit of cream left, and some sliced meat and cheese; sandwiches, d’Artagnan decides proudly. He’s so focused on finding the best bread to slice (picking the freshest for Porthos, of course), that he’s caught completely by surprise when there’s a sudden warmth at his back.   
  
He stiffens, a second away from reaching for his sword, when he hears, “And what, exactly, are you doing?”  
  
“Athos,” d’Artagnan breathes, relieved. “You scared me.” He turns his head to find Athos right behind him, close enough to touch if d’Artagnan were brave enough to lean into it.   
  
Athos hums with consideration. “You should be paying more attention to your surroundings, then.” He’s amused, d’Artagnan notices; the crinkles around his eyes are more pronounced, and his scarred lip is upturned slightly beneath his neatly trimmed beard.   
  
He’s beautiful, and d’Artagnan has to look away for fear that his blush be too obvious.   
  
“I was making sandwiches for Porthos and me- Marie said it was ok if I only used the leftovers.” D’Artagnan swallows, Athos still tantalizingly close, and tries to go back to fixing his food. “What are  _you_  doing here?”  
  
“Had a break and decided to look for some food as well,” Athos tells him, stepping just that much more closer to look over his shoulder.   
  
They’re touching now, there’s no denying it; Athos is pressed almost completely up against his back, and d’Artagnan’s heart is pounding with the excitement of it all, the  _meaning_  of it. Feeling brave- reminding himself of his promise to  _trust_  these men- d’Artagnan leans back against Athos, relaxing into his touch.   
  
D’Artagnan doesn’t think he imagines the satisfied sigh he hears.   
  
“Would you like one?” d’Artagnan blurts out, voice a tad high and broken. “A sandwich?”  
  
He slides Athos a sideways glance, noting his soft smile. “Yes. That sounds lovely.”  
  
There’s now a hand on his hip, gentle and unobtrusive but still pointedly  _there_ , and d’Artagnan picks up the best bread for Athos’ sandwich (saying a small apology to Porthos in his mind as he does). “What kind of meat would you like?” He looks through what’s available. “There’s ham and a small bit of turkey, but the chicken looks freshest.”  
  
“Can I taste the chicken?” Athos leans forward, his beard tickling the side of d’Artagnan’s face, and dear  _lord_ , the man is close. And getting closer by the second, judging by the way d’Artagnan can feel every movement and breath from the other man alongside his back.   
  
D’Artagnan grabs a small slice, turning towards Athos only to pause at the fond expression on the older man’s face. Their faces are only a breaths away from one another, and d’Artagnan’s raised hand hovers uncertainly between them.   
  
D’Artagnan doesn’t quite know what to do; his bravery has it’s limits, and this is a daunting step if he’s ever known one. He feels himself panicking, body tensing once again, and before he can run (and oh, he’s so  _good_  at that, it’s utterly shameful), Athos takes the decision from his hands. Quite literally.  
  
Gently grabbing hold of d’Artagnan’s wrist with his right hand (the other still on his hip, the touch burning through his clothes), Athos brings it slowly up to his mouth, never breaking eye contact. He bites at the strip of chicken, his beard tickling at d’Artagnan’s hand, a flicker of tongue against his forefinger bringing all the heat to his face.   
  
Athos hums appreciatively. “It’s delicious,” he murmurs, and d’Artagnan swallows helplessly.   
  
“Marinated it myself, it best be delicious,” Marie drily tells them, and they both startle guiltily. Athos finally steps back, inclining his head in apology.   
  
“Ma’am- I didn’t hear you come in.”  
  
Marie raises an eyebrow. “I gathered that.”  
  
D’Artagnan coughs to hide his laugh at Athos’ pinched expression, turning back to finishing the sandwiches.   
  
Athos spends the rest of the time haltingly making conversation with a blunt Marie, and d’Artagnan doesn’t even bother to hide his grin at the entire ordeal.

-  
  
They leave the next day around dawn, His Majesty grouchy and quite petulant about the whole ordeal while Queen Anne takes the morning ride with ease and poise.   
  
D’Artagnan still has no idea how their marriage works.   
  
He’s pushed to the back of the formation this time, directly on Athos’ right, and d’Artagnan doesn’t miss Aramis’ unsubtle wink. D’Artagnan almost averts his eyes to the mane of his horse, but then he throws a leer his friend’s way.   
  
Aramis’ loud laugh grabs everyone’s attention, Porthos and Athos looking between them with curiosity.  
  
“Porthos, did you manage to eat something?” d’Artagnan asks, remembering that it was him who had the earliest watch that day.   
  
Porthos shrugs nonchalantly, still eyeing Aramis with a calculating gaze. “Didn’t have time. Needed to grab my things during the break I got.”  
  
Aramis sighs. “Which is why I always tell you to pack the night before.”  
  
D’Artagnan grabs the small bag he placed inside his pack, tossing it to Porthos with a loud, “I thought as much.”  
  
Porthos twists around after having grabbed the apple and baguette from the bag, a bright smile on his face. “You’re an angel, lad. If it were anyone other than Athos, I might feel the need to steal you away.”  
  
D’Artagnan sputters a bit, flushing horribly at the insinuation. Aramis snickers unhelpfully, and d'Artagnan doesn’t think twice before throwing an apple at his friend’s head. Aramis catches it, of course, but he does feel a bit better.   
  
Sneaking a glance at Athos, d’Artagnan is surprised to find him smirking. “You can try, Porthos,” the older man calls out. “But I cannot guarantee your safety if you do.”  
  
Porthos turns his head back to them, taking a moment to eye d’Artagnan from head to toe. His gaze is intent and d’Artagnan squirms, but right as he’s about to throw his last apple at the bigger man, Porthos turns to Athos and grins. “I can’t say I’m not tempted, but a threat like that is not to be taken lightly.” Porthos winks, taking a loud bite of his apple as he addresses d’Artagnan once more. “But if you ever change your mind, darlin’, know you have options.”  
  
D’Artagnan flushes horribly, which only seems to make Athos scowl and Aramis laugh. Right as Athos seems geared up to reply snidely, d’Artagnan cuts in. “I’m right here,” he grumbles. “I can speak for myself.”  
  
“Oh, yes,” Aramis croons. “ _Please_  tell us, lad, who is truly in your heart.”   
  
Deciding that he can wait the hour until they reach Paris for food, d’Artagnan chucks his last apple at Aramis with everything he has.  
  
-  
  
Things are better after that.   
  
D’Artagnan talks more, sharing bits of his childhood over afternoon meals, telling his friends of his kind mother while explaining the work he’d done for his father’s business growing up. He learns of them, as well, from Porthos’ dislike of gruel and Aramis’ love of reading romantic poetry to the subtle nuances of Athos’ smiles.   
  
And so d’Artagnan starts letting go, not bothering to hold in his sarcastic remarks as often as he usually does. Sometimes he gets a qualling look from Athos, but other times he gets a smile or even a laugh, and  _never_  does he feel like he has to stop. He’s more open and frank and his innate cockiness comes out a bit more (because d’Artagnan is not  _blind_ , ok, he’s always known how good he is at swordfighting), and it’s so freeing, so  _enjoyable_ , knowing he can be wrong or rude or annoying and not have to worry about the consequences.   
  
The others might give him a slap on the head, and Athos gave him one hell of a scolding the first time he directly disobeyed orders, but d’Artagnan isn’t afraid anymore. And that-  _that_  is the best feeling in the world.   
  
-  
  
Treville raises an eyebrow when he sees Aramis and d’Artagnan engaging in some sort of tugging game over a bag of croissants in the middle of the garrison.   
  
“You already ate my lunch,” d’Artagnan hisses.   
  
“ _You_  threw it at me.” Aramis twists himself, capturing the bag and taking a vindictive bite out of a croissant. "That's becoming a habit of yours, you know- throwing food at people. You shouldn't get so angry when they  _eat_  it." D’Artagnan lets out a small shriek of rage that Treville can’t help but be amused by.   
  
“I’m  _hungry_ ,” d’Artagnan whines, and despite the miserable tone, he sounds relaxed and comfortable, something Treville has seen more of since the trip to Versailles. Glancing at Porthos and Athos, he can see that they’re amused by the proceedings; if Treville were a gambling man, he’d bet his home on them having everything to do with d'Artagnan's sudden openness.   
  
As it is, though, there’s work to be done, so Treville steps down the stairs from his office and calls out for the others to gather.   
  
“It’s the season for recruitment, as you all know, and we’ve a few new apprentices this year,” Treville tells them, signaling with his head for the men to be brought out.   
  
There's only three of them, all sons of aristocratic families as per the usual for the musketeers. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees d'Artagnan stiffen noticeably, but ignores it; the boy's most likely nervous at seeing new recruits when his own status as an official musketeer is still unconfirmed.   
  
"I'll let them introduce themselves, and later I'll come back with a schedule for you all. Athos," he calls out, inclining his head towards the recruits, "you're in charge for the day."   
  
With one final look at the group, he nods and heads away. Jacques, a baron's son from down south, is the only new recruit to move, heading determinedly toward d'Artagnan.   
  
Now that he thinks about it, Jacques is from Gascony; Treville smiles. D'Artagnan can help Jacques feel more at ease, especially if they're both hometown friends.   
  
-

“d’Artagnan!” Jacques shouts jovially. “What’re you doing here?”  
  
His heart beating loudly in his ears, d’Artagnan tries to school his expression.   
  
“Monsieur Cartier,” he mumbles, bowing slightly.   
  
Jacques looks as handsome as ever; primly pressed fine clothes, brown hair artfully styled, and leather boots gleaming from newness. The buttons on his coat are shiny and golden; d’Artagnan knows they must be worth the entirety of all his belongings, and it only serves to deepen the pit of anxiety now festering in his stomach.   
  
He can feel the others staring at him, Aramis’ body already positioning itself closer to him in curiosity. d’Artagnan wipes a hand across his forehead and neck, feeling a bit faint. As Jacques gets nearer, d’Artagnan vividly recalls the bruises and pranks and cutting words; all of a sudden, the urge to vomit is strong.   
  
But, well, seeing his tormentor after almost a year of freedom can really mess with a man’s spirits, thinks d’Artagnan almost hysterically.   
  
Completely ignoring the others, Jacques pats his shoulder a bit roughly. “You didn’t answer my question,” he reprimands mildly. Out of the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan sees Porthos frown slightly. “Are you a stable boy here?”  
  
Before d’Artagnan can answer, Porthos cuts in with narrowed eyes, standing straight with a hand on his hilt (a move, d’Artagnan knows, Porthos uses to make his already impressive build more intimidating). “He’s an apprentice just like you.”  
  
Surprise flickers through Jacques’ hard blue eyes, and d’Artagnan can’t find an ounce of pride in his own being, his future much more bleak than it had been a mere twenty minutes ago. “You’ve done well for yourself,” Jacques mutters, smiling amiably in Porthos’ direction. “Well,” he adds, after a beat, “I look forward to working with you, old friend.” Jacques pauses, looking at d’Artagnan with an expression seemingly full of sympathy. d’Artagnan knows better, though. “Also, I’m sorry about your father. He was a good man.” Nodding once at Aramis, Porthos, and Athos, Jacques retreats to mingle with the other recruits, his tall frame easily seen from a distance.   
  
“He was a right prat,” Porthos mutters. “How do you know him?”  
  
d’Artagnan swallows.   
  
( _“Stay down,” Jacques sneers at him, pressing his boot harder into the back of his head. The acrid stench of pig manure leaves d’Artagnan heaving, his inhalations so intense he breathes some of the excrement into his nose. “Stay down where you **belong** , you swain.”   
  
“Pathetic,” the older boy spits when d’Artagnan chokes on his cries, his small hands clutching at gunk and shit. “Just like your father.”  
  
There’s a splattering of laughter from the small crowd of boys. “Did I tell you about how his poor papa came to beg for help yesterday?” Jacques’ closest friend, Francis, snorts a denial. “He was practically crying- that man has no  **shame** , I tell you- and my father felt such pity he gave him some business just to shut his mouth.”   
  
Jacques sighs dramatically, d’Artagnan’s sobs a muffled noise in the background. He digs his foot in just that much harder, and d’Artagnan shouts with pain. “I guess we can’t complain, though. The world needs it’s Barons, as well as the bootlickers like Alexandre.” The pressure eases finally, Jacques coming to crouch down to d’Artagnan’s level, his eyes bright with cruelty. “And that’s what you’ll be as well, right, d’Artagnan? A bootlicker?” he asks, his smile twisted and mocking.   
  
Before d’Artagnan can answer, a hard blow to his head knocks him out._)  
  
“He’s the son of the Baron in my village,” d’Artagnan answers numbly. He licks his lips absently. “He’s a couple of years older than me.”  
  
It’s quiet, then, and it isn’t until d’Artagnan looks up that he notices that his friends are all staring at him with concerned expressions. Athos, especially, is gazing at him with an intensity he’s not quite comfortable with.   
  
He tries for a smile, and hopes it at least looks more natural than it feels. “Sorry, I’m just-” he ducks his head nervously, “I still miss Gascony. And my father,” he adds softly.   
  
Aramis’ hand is gentle when he places it on his shoulder, as are his words. “Of course, we should’ve known.”  
  
“You know,” Porthos says mischievously, nudging him in the side. “Athos is the only one who technically has to stay. We could be out doing patrols right now. Say, the blocks around La Charite?”   
  
“You mean right by your favorite tavern?” Athos asks drily.   
  
“Is it?” Porthos winks at d’Artagnan, who cracks a smile at his friends’ obvious effort in comforting him. Aramis pointedly steps on Athos’ toes, eliciting the most dignified yelp d’Artagnan's ever heard.   
  
Athos clears his throat, the tips of his ears tinged pink. “Well, I suppose you can all leave a bit early today. As long you do promise to patrol  _something_ ,” he says pointedly to Aramis and Porthos.   
  
The chance to leave- to flee for the time being- is so relieving that d’Artagnan only looks at Athos with a grateful expression and mutters a quiet, “Thank you.”   
  
Athos’ ears burn a bit brighter, if possible, but he still steps forward, his hand coming around to grip d’Artagnan’s upper arm with intent. “I shall come as soon as I am able,” he promises.   
  
d’Artagnan leans into his hold, however chaste, and nods.   
  
Porthos claps him hard on the back, breaking their short moment. “Alright! Let’s go!” With a jaunty wave and hearty laugh, Porthos leads d’Artagnan and a more-than-willing Aramis out of the garrison.   
  
-  
  
“Are you sure you’re ok?” d’Artagnan glances up from his half empty glass of wine, Porthos’ concerned face right in front of him.   
  
Aramis had left them only a few moments ago, rolling his eyes as he stated his intent to do a few rounds around the block to ease Athos’ concern for patrolling. He won’t be back for half an hour at least, and d’Artagnan figures Porthos had waited for their friend to be gone before starting his questioning.   
  
“I’m fine,” he assures, his finger trailing the outline of the cup he’s holding; he’s been on one glass the entire night, finding himself hesitant to spend more lest he find himself out of employment sometime soon.   
  
( _“I’m sorry, boy,” the blacksmith tells him, his thick arms folded in restrained apology. “I can’t keep you on.”  
  
d’Artagnan sputters helplessly for a moment before surging forward, grabbing at the man’s coat with small hands. “ **Please** , sir, I need to bring in money for my family! This is the best paid job I could get-”  
  
The blacksmith only shakes his head. “I can’t chance angering the Baron’s son, d’Artagnan. I’m sorry.”  
  
The man still slips him a few measly coins, too much for his last day’s pay, but it’s not enough to dim the embarrassed anger he feels when he arrives home and sees the resigned sadness upon his mother’s face.   
  
d’Artagnan has never hated someone as much as he hates Jacques Cartier, and at twelve years old, his limbs gangly and his fingers clenched around week-old bread for dinner, he doubts he ever will._)  
  
“We’ve lost many people as well.” Porthos takes a long drink from his own cup, sucking on his lip as if to chase the lingering taste. “We can understand you, d’Artagnan, if only you let us.”  
  
d’Artagnan almost snorts. Porthos, so strong and large and fearless, and Aramis, clever and kind and fierce, are the embodiment of everything d’Artagnan  _wishes_  he could be. Athos, so fine a figure he cuts, and how utterly  _noble_  he seems, even after just knowing him.   
  
These men can never understand the helplessness of being weak, broken, and hurt. They’d never understand the cowardly way d’Artagnan had hid from his tormentors, trying and failing to find relief at the end of every nightmarish day.   
  
Porthos would have fought, torn right through anyone who believed him lesser just like he had raised himself up to the ranks of musketeers. Aramis would’ve had charm and charisma, and no one would have looked at him and seen ‘target’ either way.   
  
Athos-  _Athos_  is as blue blood as they come. None would have  _dared_  touch him.   
  
No, this shame is not one that can be shared, for d’Artagnan is not ready for the look of pity to cross his friends’ faces, nor the veiled disgust at having a comrade so weak. So d’Artagnan merely shrugs and takes another sip, hoping for the night to last just a bit longer so he can avoid tomorrow that much more. 

-

“Are you alright?”   
  
d’Artagnan looks up from his soup, eyes glazed over as if in a daze. Constance resists reaching out to check his forehead; she might be his lodger and involuntary assistant in crime-fighting, but she is  _not_ his mother.   
  
“M’fine,” he mumbles, clearly unfocused.   
  
Constance finally gives in and leans over the table, pressing her hand roughly against his cheeks. “You don’t feel feverish,” she murmurs, ignoring his indignant cries.   
  
“I said I was  _fine_ ,” he tells her, a bit of his good cheer back given the small grin on his lips.   
  
Constance glares at him. “Then why have you been moping about all morning? It’s unsettling and frankly off putting; I can hardly eat my breakfast while you sit there looking like  _that_.”   
  
The look she gets almost makes her smiles, but she holds strong. She  _does_  want to know what’s wrong with him, after all.   
  
d’Artagnan sighs, giving in. “I’ve just been thinking. About home,” he clarifies at her disbelieving look.   
  
Any mocking dries up right quick at his admission. “Missing family?”  
  
He shrugs uncommittedly, and her heart breaks just a bit for him. d’Artagnan is a dear friend, and she loathes to see him so upset.   
  
Especially since he’s been in such high spirits these last few months, trailing after his friends with a lightheartedness he hadn’t shown before. His small smiles and happy sighs made her think he’d found a girl (she admits, in the small and petty part of her mind, that she’d felt a tiny trickle of jealousy at the thought), but she soon found out she’d been wrong. Well, she’d been wrong in a  _different_  sense.   
  
The day Athos came by, a small basket of foods native to southern France, Constance had simply smiled and let him in. He’d looked a bit flushed, she remembers amusedly. But not nearly as flustered as d’Artagnan had been when he’d stepped into the waiting room to find Athos, uniform replaced by expensive clothes, boots shined to perfection, hat gone, and an unsure smile. She still thinks on the moment fondly.   
  
(“Athos?” d’Artagnan had asked, his voice higher than normal as he’d taken in the musketeer’s dress. Constance understood the reaction- she’d found herself a bit dry mouthed at the sight of Athos in a fine linen shirt and coat as well. His clothes weren’t particularly fanciful or lavish, but he looked more striking than ever, and that was not an unsubstantial statement considering Athos’ usual degree of attractiveness. “I- is everything alright?”   
  
Athos glanced at her for only a moment. “Everything’s fine, I simply wanted to-” a pause, and Athos managed to somehow look both awkward and regal all at once, “pass by.”   
  
Athos looked particularly pained, then, and Constance felt a pang of pity. “I’ll go get started on dinner,” she said, excusing herself to move into the kitchen (still within hearing distance, though, because she might’ve felt bad, but she was also a housewife with limited entertainment).   
  
“I brought you something,” Athos finally said, his voice gruff and uncertain. “Just some things I found in market today-”  
  
“These are  _aubergines_ ,” d’Artagnan exclaimed happily, and Constance heard swift rustling. “And apricots and roquefort and- Athos, this is all from Gascony,” and that was certainly wonder in his voice, Constance noted.   
  
“They had a varied selection today,” Athos grunted, but it sounded weak even to her ears.   
  
Athos’, “really, must you make that face,” was low but still audible, and Constance could practically see the beaming smile d’Artagnan must’ve had on his face. Apparently, d’Artagnan thought his excuse weak as well.   
  
“This was kind of you,” d’Artagnan murmured after a beat, and oh.  _Oh_. She’d never heard  _that_  tone before. Constance wondered why, instead of the prickly feelings of jealousy she’d had before, all she felt was a soft happiness for her dear friend.   
  
She had figured it might have something to do with the way Athos softly denied it. “Hardly,” he said, and his voice was so  _fond_. “You’re still new to Paris and, well, you’ve had a lot to deal with lately-” and Constance nearly snorted, because that suicidal mission the week before was not just  _something to deal with_ \- “so I thought this could help. Yes.”   
  
Athos cleared his throat, and Constance grinned amusedly into her hands. This was utterly  _precious_.   
  
“This is still too much,” d’Artagnan insisted sincerely, and Constance smirked at the underlying coyness in his voice. She felt so glad he’d become more open lately, because apart from being a close friend she cared for, he was  _quite_  the entertaining sort besides. “I hardly deserve this level of treatment,” and now there’s no mistaking the flirty tone in d’Artagnan’s words.   
  
Oh, he’s just  _fishing_  for it, Constance thought mischievously.   
  
“You do, though,” and the words are said so certainly, not a hint of mocking or insincerity or teasing interwoven in them, that Constance had to fight the gasp wanting to escape her in that moment. Athos sounded so absolutely sure of it- secure in the knowledge that d’Artagnan  _deserved_  this and more- and it was such a romantic thought, so pure and entirely sincere, that instead of jealousy towards Athos, Constance felt a tingle of envy towards  _d’Artagnan_ , of all things.   
  
But she doubted anyone could fault her for it; it’d be the greatest feeling, being admired so ardently that even a simple statement regarding a basket of goods sounded like a passionate  _‘I love you’._  
  
“Well, then,” she heard, and it brought her back to the moment. “I should take my leave, now-”   
  
Straining, she heard a shuffling of feet and a long indrawn sigh. “Thank you,” d’Artagnan said, his voice muffled a bit, and the sound of fabric rustling reached her ears. She imagined a hug, perhaps, or maybe even a near-kiss. She doubted their relationship had progressed as such, but she hoped it would soon. They sounded so- so  _happy_.   
  
“Nonsense,” Athos replied, and despite sounding stiff, his voice was warm and kind. “I really should be off, though- I’d to overstay my welcome. I’m sure Madame Bonacieux would rather I not loiter around her home.”   
  
With a reserved goodbye to her (and she’d had to leap for her cleaning rag, because it’d taken her a while to realize she’d just been standing with her ear to the wall) and a far more heartfelt one to d’Artagnan, he’d gone, and she doubted she imagined the truly besotted expression d’Artagnan aimed at the man’s back.   
  
 _“Well_ ,” she said, her lips twisted into a smirk. “Now I know why Aramis keeps bringing up sodomy laws whenever he comes ‘round.”  
  
d’Artagnan merely blushed and gave her an affronted look, but she wasn’t fooled; the way his hands clenched tight and his teeth bit into his lip? Constance snorted. The boy was utterly  _smitten_.)  
  
But this is not the d’Artagnan of those happier moments; now, as he avoids looking at her, she sees the bags under his eyes and the worried way he taps his fingers on the table. Constance feels a pang of empathy for her friend, and reaches across the table for his hand. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, and pours her sincerity into her words as best she can. “It must be difficult, living so far away from your mother and sister.”  
  
He smiles briefly, squeezing her hand back gently, but before he can reply, they hear a knock at the door. “I’ll get that,” she tells him, stopping him when he gets up. “You finish your breakfast- you’re to be at the garrison soon, yes?”  
  
She doesn’t wait for an answer, wiping her hands clean on her apron as she makes her way over to the door.   
  
The man she finds is quite- quite  _fit_ , to be honest. Tall, blue-eyed, and cockshir grin firmly in place. “I am Jacques Cartier,” he introduces, and his smugness is enough to cure any spark of interest she might’ve felt. “I heard that Charles d’Artagnan lodged here?”  
  
“Madame Bonacieux,” she says, introducing herself in kind, and eyes him a bit for good measure. “Are you a friend of his?”  
  
“He is,” d’Artagnan confirms, coming up behind her. He throws her a strained grin, and she guesses that his melancholy from earlier is still present. “He’s from Gascony as well- and a new apprentice with the musketeers.”  
  
“How… interesting,” Constance mutters, not liking the way Cartier smirks at d’Artagnan knowingly. He seems a questionable fellow, and she already knows she doesn’t like him.   
  
d’Artagnan pats her shoulder gently. “We’ll just be off then,” he tells her, nudging his way past the door. “Have a lovely day, Constance!”  
  
Cartier tips his hat to her, gripping d’Artagnan’s shoulder when he reaches him. “Pleasure to meet you, Madame.”   
  
“Likewise,” she says, watching them go. She spends the rest of the day mindlessly working her way through her chores, but there’s a small part of her still unsettled. She tries to shrug it off, though; d’Artagnan has a right to make whatever friends he wishes. She is most certainly  _not_  his mother, after all, to be telling him otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> [This](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_low83wsOi61qarksao1_500.jpg) is my headcanon for Cartier :3 Also, the title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JEt-95_89U) by Polly Scattergood. Give it a listen, it's awesome :D


End file.
